


In This Strange Land

by telemachus



Series: Rising-verse [13]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Gen, M/M, Merry and Pippin not so much, Protective Gimli, Sam has strict morals, could be pre-slash, elf-angst, elves are weird, so much weird elves, waiting for Aragorn's wedding, what happens in Gondor......
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-17
Updated: 2015-03-17
Packaged: 2018-03-18 08:38:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3563252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are three months - or nearly - to wait in Minas Tirith, between the end of the War, and Aragorn's Wedding. That's a long time for a naïve elf-prince in a city of Men.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In This Strange Land

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Angela](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angela/gifts).



> The Teitho Challenge Prompt was - Out of Place - and when I was writing, I kept thinking of Angela, and her appreciation of my weird elves.......the story placed joint third, so - thank you Angela, for the inspiration; this one's for you.

I find I wish I had not said I would go to his caves, travel with him.

No.

That is not true, that could never be true, I would not wish to part from my - my friend before I must.

I find I wish we had not to wait for this great Midsummer Feast, this Coronation, this Wedding. – And that is strange enough to me, this idea of waiting. If our friend is not King, who then is? And if he is King – as he surely is – then how can he be not crowned? How can there still be a Coronation to await?

As for – celebrating another’s Wedding – well.

It is, I suppose, a Noldor custom.

To me, to me it seems – intrusive.

But what do I know of how such things are done in royal houses? It is many long years since there was a wedding in the royal family of Mirkwood. Silvans do not marry so formally. These things are a matter for the two who love – and – and I suppose they may celebrate in a quiet way with friends, or family.

I have ever been a hunter, an elf to stay within my group, not to look for love, nor to have friends who do so.

And so – I know not quite what to expect. 

One thing I had not expected – these – what do they call them?  
Rehearsals.

Choirs – I think that was the word – groups of Men who sing together. Men or women, I should say. It seems that the word Men means only – oh I do not have the words, but – human males. They care so about these things.

And – and the choirs – they are chosen – as though there are some among this race who cannot – will not – sing.

As for – rehearsals – I do not understand at all. At least, I know, of course I know, that a poet, or minstrel, who has a tale to tell, may need to practise the wording, may even, perhaps, like to work at, choose, a melody or harmony.

But that a group – come together to celebrate some simple thing – to sing together of their happiness – of an event all know and have experienced together – that such a group should need to – practise – well.

It is all very peculiar.

And yet – so much in this city is so peculiar. These things are but the least of it.

I – I had thought – if I thought at all – that it would be like to – to Edoras, or – I do not know – perhaps to Imladris.

It is not.

Imladris is, of course, a place of elves. Noldor, yet – still elves. 

Edoras – I understand now, that was no city. That was no more a city than is Esgaroth or Dale, Dale where I have never been allowed to venture, save when it was but a ruin, and Esgaroth – Esgaroth is used to elves.

This place – these people – they look at me strangely, and I – I feel so – trapped. Hemmed in by stone, caged and trammelled with nowhere to run, no way to climb above the streets and crowds, no way to hide, fading into the canopy.

There is no canopy.

There are no trees here.

It cannot be natural to live this way.

No wonder their lives are so short, their song lost, their words so – harsh.

Their words are harsh, loud, angry in my ears. I cannot escape the noise, at every hour of the day they are shouting, or so it seems to me, endlessly the traders cry their wares in the streets, Men shout to greet each other in friendship, or in anger, women shout at children, children – children shout for the joy of noise.

So it seems to me.

And – so many children.

No wonder, I think, that if there is to be no more war the new Age will be for Men. They have so many children. Families here – ordinary families, not merely those who are noble – have five, six, seven children or more.

And to think – my parents were considered excessive to have three, and then a fourth to try to replace the lost eldest.

Not that I could. 

Who could replace one so loved, so perfect in all things?

But – so many children here.

Running, as though the streets of stone that leave me bewildered and unable to find my way are as clear as any forest path to them. Laughing, as though – as though they had not a care in the world. Playing, as though there were no need to learn to fight, to hunt, to – prove themselves.

Perhaps there is not for children of Men in this city.

And – in among the children – the aged. Never have I seen so many – in truth, never have I seen any aged before – not aged like this. 

For these – these crones and men of crooked backs – they are but barely more than the age at which an elf is considered full-grown – yet – they are bent and withered, their teeth blackened or missing, their eyes and ears failing them – leaving them, one would think, stranded in some pointless misery, a pit of blackness and silence worse than that purblind state in which all mortals live. Yet – somehow – they so often seem happy, talking and laughing, watching as best they can as the children run. Their children’s children, I suppose.

And I wonder what it is to have such a short life, and yet – so many – connections.

I wish we had not agreed to stay here.

I thought – at first I thought – perhaps my - my dear friend would dislike the city as much as I – he is no Man, he also might be made uneasy.

It seems I was wrong.

Dwarves, I find, are – what is the word – adaptable.

I suppose – stone is stone. The buildings here are high, there seems little sight of the sky – perhaps it is homelike enough for him. Perhaps he is one to spend time in Dale, as he says some dwarves do, though I do not understand his grin when he speaks of evenings there.

I – I would fain stay in my – our – rooms more – but – I am afraid to seem – to seem as though I hold myself aloof.

I heard them say that – all these months, and still they forget my hearing when they speak of me – those first days, when I did hide myself from this strangeness. I heard them say that perhaps I thought myself too good – too princely – now the fighting was done – and I could not bear that my companions – any of them – the halflings, my friend – I could not bear that they should think so.

They tell me that we have not “rooms”, that we have a house, a house with a garden, in a city.

It feels like rooms within a palace to me.

And that is no garden.

I can cross it – nay, even my short-legged friend can cross it – in a few strides.

Sometimes – when I cannot rest – when all is quiet – so quiet – so strangely quiet – at night – I pace back and forth, round and round, but – it is no garden.

There are no trees, no spill of flowers, no bushes, no – earth.

There are only paving slabs, and a few tall flowers grown in – some kind of outdoor vases. And at night – at night I can barely see the stars, so bright are all the mortal lights around, so bright they keep their city, even when all are in their strange sleep.

I have not words for the wrongness of such a place.

It is no garden.

And so I go out with them, my friends, I walk among the people, through these streets of stone, and I try to imagine them as they should be, with plants and trees, with running water, with song.

It is hard.

My friends insist on visiting traders – shops, they call them – little rooms where all is on sale, for money, and – and they have gold, they choose cloth, food, washing oils, more and more things. As though we were not fed by the King, and had not clothes enough, and – I do not understand what they can want with all these things.

I ask, are they gifts for those at home – that I could perhaps understand – I know Sam, and Meriadoc, and I think Peregrine have – have those at home of whom they are fond. As does my friend. He has parents - he is a much-loved son. I will not let myself begin to wonder if there is any other - I will not think of such things. He is my friend - and if that is all - I shall not spoil it with a longing for - for things I have not the words to say.

Anyway. It seems – some of the things are to go home, but some – some are simply to have now, because – because they can. 

“Have you no money, no gold to spend, Legolas?” they ask me, and I – I must shake my head. They offer to lend – give – me some, and I – I flush, grateful, yet – aware that I do indeed have gold, a little, given me by my King, for – I do not know what. To be used only in great need.

My home is not a kingdom rich in such wealth, and the King would require an accounting of any spent.

I try to say this, and they look at me confused,

“Gold of your own,” they say, and now – now it is my turn to be confused. How could gold belong to me? I am not the King. Only the King can own such things, all belongs to him in his realm. In the end, I reassure them once more that I want nothing, and it is forgotten.

I suppose – as I watch my friends change their clothes – enjoy their dressing up – it might be – pleasant to act so.

But – I have no gold to spend and – what would I do with more clothes?

I have my hunters garb, there is enough and to spare of such cloth in the stores of my Forest, I have my princely raiment, for such occasions as the one we await – and when would I need more than these?

Clothes do not last, and soon – soon – please Elbereth, soon – I shall be at home, in my Forest, where clothes are needed only at court, valued only for their practical uses.

As for excess food, and drink – I am not a hobbit, to take such pleasure in it.

Nor a dwarf.

Besides, I – I would not have them see how slow I am in reading these letters, this common tongue, nor in bargaining, in understanding how the – the money – is counted.

It seems to me that perhaps – perhaps it is not a thing of which to be proud, that even Sam – dear Sam – kind Sam – would manage any of this easier than I.

 

 

 

The days drag on, the waiting seems no nearer an end.

They say – midsummer – but – how can one feel the approach of midsummer, here in these walls of stone where no light comes, no green things grow, no good earth can be smelt?

I try to speak of this to Sam – I think – he is a gardener, surely he will understand – and he does, he does – but – his loyalty is so strong, his love for Frodo so great that – he cares only to be with him, to see him become well once more.

The nights are the worst.

It is so quiet then, but – I cannot see the stars.

The walls are too high, the lights they leave burning too bright – and why, why must they leave any lights burning when they go to bed, to their strange sleep – why cannot those hours at least be – as Eru intended?

If I must be alone, in a deserted city, can I not at least have my stars?

One night, I think, perhaps – perhaps if I were to leave our rooms, and walk – not in the sorry airless, roofless cell they call a garden, but out, in the streets, and down – down to the lower levels of this city. Perhaps where people are poor, for I begin to understand that here – here it is possible for some to have to choose between food and light with their money – here the King does not provide enough and no more for all – and so there might be less light at night – perhaps I could look up and see the stars there?

I walk, and I walk, silent as elves cannot but be silent, along these streets, not knowing my way, not able to sense it, unable to read their signs, and bereft of the hints I would have from any of sweet lady Yavanna’s plants, yet – always I make my way down, down the slope of this hill.

I wonder, as I walk, for the first time, I wonder what a city of elves would be like. Not like this, that I know, yet – I wonder if Gondolin, if Nargothrond, if – if Mithlond even – would be almost as strange to me, uncultured, wild wood-elf that I am. 

And the realisation that Ada – Ada lived and was happy long years in the cities of Doriath, in Mithlond – shows me once more how little I will ever please him, how far apart we will always be.

I find – to my surprise – I find the streets on the lower levels are not so quiet and dark as I had hoped.

Instead – they are busy. Noisy, lively.

Here – here there is music – and singing in the streets.

Dancing even.

At least, I think it is dancing and music. Sometimes it is hard to tell with mortals.

Here – here none look askance at me for my plain clothes, nor for my knives. I have kept my face averted, pretended not to understand, but I am not such a fool as some think me – I know it worries Aragorn’s new advisors that I keep my weapons with me at all times – that my - my dear friend does also. I know – how can I not hear and see – the whispers in the street, the stares we provoke.

He thinks – the hobbits think – it is merely that we are elf and dwarf – I know that it is our weapons, his armour.

I do not tell him.

I would not like to be without my knives, naked as I would then feel, and so – so I deceive my - my friend, and let him also go armed and clad in mail. 

Indeed, I told one advisor that it was necessary – that dwarves never go anywhere other than in that fashion, and he – he believed me. As though words spoken by an elf of a dwarf might be relied upon.

Eru, what fools these mortals be.

Anyway.

Here, in these lower quarters, it seems it is not unusual to carry weapons – knives even – or to use them.

It seems these people drink, and dance, and sing and laugh – and – almost, almost I think I could feel more at home here.

Except – never is there that convergence of song, that feeling of all being part of a whole, that – comfort – that one finds among my Silvans.

Never do I see them touch each other’s hair or ears.

And I feel still so alone.

But – it is interesting, in a way, and I wonder why we have never come here before.

Perhaps it is too far for the hobbits’ short legs, I think.

It is a shame, I think they would like it. Everyone is so much more – friendly – here. Especially the women.

I think Peregrine would like that.

At least – I may be wrong about this – I – I do not really understand – but – it seems that mortals – well.

They are very different to elves.

Anyway.

This is a friendly part of town. I wander for – I do not know – I do not know how to tell how much time has passed. I can still hardly see the sky, only enough to be sure that dawn is not yet here, and their bells – which I do not really understand, but am becoming used to – their bells stop at night.

In my wanderings, and greeting of those who speak to me, and refusing to buy food or drink – surely, surely it would be an insult to the King if a guest in his palace were to buy more than is served there – but no, it cannot be, or they would not all do so – in my wanderings, I at length find a corner, an alcove set apart a little way, where one can stand in silence, and watch, and – and feel – almost as though I were for a time back among my Silvans, standing and watching, as a Sindar royal must, while they revel.

There is some ivy growing here, I do not know how, it must miss the trees it can never have known. Ivy is not a plant I much admire, it takes too much strength from its host, it kills it in the end, but here – here it is at least green and growing, here it too is an exile, and I – I take comfort in its survival.

Time passes, I suppose.

Dawn will soon be here, I judge, looking at the sky.

And still I have found nowhere in this city where I can see my stars.

I turn to leave, and to make my way back to the rooms I share with my companions, and I realise I do not know the way.

It cannot be so very hard, I think, it must just be – upwards. At least, if I keep that way, surely I will find some place I recognise? 

I walk, and I walk, and I wonder how it is possible for an elf to feel so lost, so tired – not tired for reverie, simply – tired of this place. Stone-tired, I call it in my mind, and I know I could not dare use such a phrase to my friend, to my dwarf - who is not my dwarf.

He would laugh. Call me flighty, and foolish.

As I walk, as I ascend the hill once more, I realise that dawn has broken – and in this enclosed city one can hardly even know – and all around me the bustle of the day begins. The shops are opening already – bakers I think, bread for sale, and women – it is always women, I think, although in truth I do not know why – are buying and taking it home to feed their families.

At least, I suppose that is what they do. How would I know?

Still I am finding streets, squares, in this city where I have not been before. As I cross one, I see – something I cannot believe.

I stop, horrified.

This – this cannot be.

Not in this city.

This – this is supposed to be a fair city, a noble city.

How can such a place exist here?

I watch, I – I try to understand what I see, but – I cannot. I – there are no words for such – such – at first I think it is wanton cruelty and – and hurt – but then – and I clutch at the stone behind me for support – and who knew that stone could support an elf so?

Who knew what comfort there could be in stone?

I knew not, until I saw – this.

They – they hand over gold.

They choose this.

They – they think it no shame.

To pay – to pay for this – this of all things – to pay – this cannot be.

Sweet Eru, I have not the words for – such shame, such – degradation.

To pay one for this – and – and the other to take money for such an act.

I stand there, and I feel – sick.

Is this how mortals are?

Is this – is this – do all act so?

If Men do – then do the other mortal races?

Do – do my – those who I have thought of as my friends?

It is not just the – the shame of the act – and – and I shiver as I recognise a dark excitement in myself – a temptation I never dreamt existed within me – a desire – an unformed longing to know – how would such a thing feel? What would it be like? To – to do so – and – and walk away – and all to see, to know one had done this, had borne this – this utter abasement?

But – beyond that – the – the other, the other that I have known so well, so often, that – all crave beyond food or wine. And that it should happen here, in daylight, in a little house set open to the passers-by.

My ears flush, and I am breathless.

Yet – they pay.

How can this be?

Would they buy this – this sweetness – this – comfort – this, this that is – or should be – all – one to another – would they pay for this with – gold?

Not with – true affection – friendship even, perhaps, love – but – with tawdry gold?

I am lost and alone, and far from home, and – I do not know who to trust, I do not know to whom I can turn.

I am glad I have my knives at my side, reminding me who I am, what I am.

 

 

 

 

 

After what seems a long while, I manage to walk onwards.

Eventually, I find – not our rooms – our rooms – am I to continue to share a room with those who – who may have – done this – paid for this? – I find a street I think I know, and I am able to – slowly – trace a path to the door of our rooms.

I go in, and I sit.

I do not really notice that the hobbits are bustling around – as they do – preparing food. Hobbits are always preparing food – as well say, hobbits breathe, elves sing, dwarves – dwarves complain. 

He comes in, not, I think, fully awake, grumbling even as he makes his way to where there is a seat, and the hot drink he likes, and food – meat, even at break of day he must have meat with every meal – ready for him.

Sam is kind.

Gimli sits, and begins to eat, and slurp his drink, and – and oh my friend, I want to cry out, I want to shake an answer from him – but – I dare not – because I am afraid of what it would be – have you done this thing?

Have you paid for this?

Gently, Sam touches me on the arm, and offers me water.

Just water.

That is all I want – and I am grateful for it.

Peregrine and Meriadoc are talking away, as they do, Frodo is silent, as usual, and Sam – kind Sam – is too busy making sure all are well to take care of himself. My friend – Gimli – finishes his plateful, and empties his mug – wordlessly he holds it out to Sam, and it is filled, and he drinks again, and halfway down it, he looks up, at me, and says,

“Fucks sake, elf, where did you get to last night? What time did you get home?”

I shrug, as I have learnt to do,

“I do not know where. I walked – I walked through the lower city. I – there are places where they sing and dance all night. And – “ I hesitate, then, “and drink. You – you might like it. I hoped – I hoped to see stars, but – I could not. It – it was a friendly place though. Rath Lalorn, I – I noticed that. I – would you – maybe – another night? I – I think they sold beer –“ I run out of words, as I see they are all staring at me in silence, and then I add, “I have not been back long.”

And suddenly, suddenly, the – the place – that I saw – it is too much – I cannot look at any of them, and – I feel unclean from the thought of it. I move – hastily – from the room, from the sight and smell of their food, until I am out in the – not-garden – and there is, thank you Elbereth, a pump, and clean water – I do not know how there can be clean fresh water here, but there is, and – and I can wash, and wash, and I must scrub my clothes, and I care not if they see me, what care I if I am naked as Eru intended elves to be, I must wash the dirt and shame away, and my hair – oh my hair – I must rinse, and rinse, and will I ever be clean of the shame of it?

How can I forget what I saw?

How can I ever comb – ever – again?

For a long time, I am so engrossed in my washing that I do not realise someone has followed me out.

“You – you really went there? Rath Lalorn?”

It is Peregrine. 

Of course it is Peregrine.

“Yes,” I say, “what of it?”

He looks at me, and I – I do not know how to read his eyes.

“It is just – Beregond – warned us against it. He said – it was not – not safe. Not – not always clean.”

I shrug,

“It seemed safe and clean to me, but – I am perhaps no judge. I think you would be not harmed if you were together.”

He nods, and there is a hint of the usual grin,

“Then I will dare Merry to come. He will not refuse a dare. Just – just to look. Nothing more,” and he is gone.

I stay there a while longer, still washing.

Sam comes, to draw water to clean away the breakfast dishes, I suppose. He does not speak to me.

He seems – as though I have done something wrong.

I do not know what.

I – I did not speak of what I saw – how can he know?

Eventually I run out of ways to wash, and I curl to sit in the sun, to dry, to wait for my clothes to dry, and I – I take out my comb, and quickly, before any shall see, I tidy and braid my hair.

I would not be unbound before any this day.

I sit myself between these poor plants in their stone vases, and I try to imagine myself among true growing things. I sing, and almost I imagine that these poor treelets reach out to me, and share my pain.

I let the sun, and the breeze carry me into dreams.

When I return to myself, I am no longer alone.

The scent of pipeweed is around me, and for a moment, a moment only, I allow myself to relax into it, to feel – safe.

Then the horror comes back, and I flinch away from them both, my friends, my friends who I thought I knew, but I do not.

“Legolas, what ails you?” it is the healer in Aragorn speaking, and I – I am ashamed that he should think me hurt, “What – something has happened to you – in my city – and I would know what it is that I might help you, or seek vengeance?”

I shake my head, I cannot speak of it. 

I feel their exchange of looks over my head, and then my – my friend – I thought he was my friend, my so dear friend, but how can any elf understand these mortals – he reaches out to me and I flinch away again, I cannot bear the touch of – of any – for – for my thoughts – if he is innocent, then I pollute him, and if not – if not I cannot bear his closeness,

“Elf, what happened? You said – you told us that you went to Rath Lalorn – did – anyone – there is no shame in admitting defeat? You were alone. If you were attacked – “ he is trying to make his voice kind, and gentle, but it does not come easy to him, and he sounds – fierce still. But the fierceness is on my side, and I know he wishes to protect me, as he would in battle. But how can he protect me from something I saw, from something that is perhaps not wrong to him?

I must speak, I know I must.

“No,” I manage, “it was not there. It – it was so close to here. I – I did not know such things – such things could be. They – the Men – they chose to go in – and – it was done to them – and they – they paid.”

I feel them exchanging looks, puzzlement.

“What, Legolas?” somehow, it is the King commanding me to speak, and I know about Kings, I know they must be obeyed, and somehow I can.

“They – they cut – they cut – and combed – and cut – their – their – hair.” I stumble over the words, and I cannot look at them, I have seen this done, and I – I am shamed by the sight.

Again my friends exchange looks.

Again Aragorn speaks first,

“Legolas, are you talking about a – a barber’s shop? Somewhere Men go to – to have their hair cut and tidied, their beards trimmed or shaved? And yes, they pay, it is the man’s living, his profession.”

I am flushed, I feel my ears burn to – to hear him speak – how can he say such things? 

How can he call it a profession?

I can barely nod, I am so shamed to – to admit I saw – I watched – I stood and I watched – and – and the words I cannot – will not – utter – I thought – if they can pay for such – such things – those Men – does that mean – does that mean I need not be so alone – day after day, night after night – might I – but I cannot, I know I cannot – it would be – beyond the shame and filth I have felt even watching – and I – I must not even imagine. 

It is simply the being alone so very long.

That is all.

That and the fighting, the deaths, the fear, the – the fear I will not return home, will never feel the comfort of combing, of hands in hair again.

But I will. I know I will.

I think this as I wait to see if he will say more, but instead he sighs again, and pats my arm, and puffs at his pipe. 

There is silence a while longer, and then he rises and says,

“Legolas, I am sorry you were distressed, but – it is normal. Men – our hair is not as yours. Nor is that of hobbits – nor dwarves, for that matter.”

I nod, still not looking at him, or anywhere except my feet.

“If you should wish to see stars another night, Legolas, I will ask a chamberlain to show you the way out onto the roof of the palace. Now, I have other things I needs must do today. I will hope to see you later, all of you,” and he takes his leave.

I suppose Gimli must walk him out of the house, shut the door, or something, because I am alone a short time.

When he returns I manage to look at him,

“You knew of this?” I ask, and then, I cannot help it, “you – you would go to some such?”

He shakes his head,

“No,” he says, and I – I feel my eyes widen in relief, but, “at least – yes, I knew. No, I would not go to such – although there are dwarves who choose to keep their hair short. For practical reasons,” he laughs, “reasons no flighty elf would understand.”

Almost, almost I smile, almost the bickering tone is familiar enough to help.

He sees it, and continues,

“Now you have done it though. Those two tearaways are wanting to go to Rath Lalorn tonight, just to look about they say. And I suppose I will have to go to keep an eye on them. Sam certainly will not, and I think Frodo – no.”

I shake my head, no. Poor Frodo. Then I grin,  
“I will take them, if you like. It seemed safe enough to me, but if you are afraid – ”

His fist clenches, 

“Daft sodding elf,” he says, “you were lucky. Or recognised. As for those two – same as you. No sense. I will take them, and you – you may do as you please.” He looks away, as though it is difficult to speak for a moment, and mutters, as though he wishes me not to hear, “when beardless boys go to such places, they go not to buy but to sell – and if you do not know that, master elf, all the more reason for me to keep you safe.”

I do not understand. 

But I welcome his care for me.

Then he bends to where my clothes are lying, picks up my tunic and leggings, and throws them at me,

“Now, for the love of Mahal, put some bloody clothes on, before half the neighbourhood is peering over the walls to see you.”

I laugh and do so.

But – for the love of Elbereth, I think – I am nothing special to see, why would they look – and why would I care if they did?


End file.
